In at the Death

18

It was pretty late when we woke the next morning, but then I reckoned I was owed a bit of a lie-in, not to mention a substantial breakfast. Besides, I’d got quite a strenuous day ahead of me, beginning with a hike over to the Trigemina Gate to check on the bona fides or otherwise of my stonemason chums. In the unlikely event that they did turn out to be pukkah then fine; once I had an address I could thank them by sending a couple of jars of Caecuban. If not…well, we’d have to think about that.

‘You’ll be taking Placida, naturally,’ Perilla said as Bathyllus poured her breakfast fruit juice.

She’d caught me in mid-bite of my honeyed roll. I almost choked.

‘Jupiter, lady, I’ve got a job to do!’

She sighed. ‘Marcus, we talked about this last night. Oh, I quite agree, she’d be far better off with Alexis. He’s much more reliable, and at least he can be trusted to look after her properly, but — ’

‘But what?’ I set the roll down.

‘Well, you haven’t exactly been a good influence so far, have you? She was a perfect angel when she came, and look at her now.’ I was staring open-mouthed. She reached for the grapes. ‘Oh, I’m not blaming you, dear, it’s not completely your fault: animals are very sensitive to these things. But even so, after the events of yesterday evening I’d be happier knowing you have her with you.’

There ain’t no justice. Bugger. Trapped again. Not that I would’ve minded all that much about that — she was right; if someone had set these two muggers on me then having Placida on the team would be a serious disincentive for a second attempt — but being accused of corrupting the brute’s morals really hurt. I hoped I never met the sainted Sestia Calvina because unless somebody restrained me I’d vivisect the lady with a rusty sawblade.

Yeah, well. Like the Stoics say, when Fate frowns on you all you can do is give her the finger and grin back. Besides, Alexis had said that Placida had been good as gold yesterday. Maybe she was settling down.

And maybe we’d be hit from above by a shower of pigshit.

Bathyllus oozed over. ‘Would you like some more rolls, sir?’ he said. ‘Madam?’

‘Uh-uh. Not for me, anyway, little guy,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’d better be going. Oh. One thing. You have an address for Lucius Carsidius? The senator?’

He hardly blinked. ‘Yes, of course. He has a house on the Esquiline, overlooking Patrician Street.’

‘Could you send a skivvy round? Ask if it’d be convenient to call on him some time this afternoon.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fine. I should be back here in time for lunch and you can give me his answer then. Where’s Placida?’

‘With Meton in the kitchen, sir. She spends a lot of her time down there. As I said, they’ve become quite friendly.’

Gods! Put these two together and you had the potential for a partnership made in hell. Still, that was Meton’s business. Or at least I hoped it’d stay that way.

‘Wheel her up, then, pal,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘Don’t forget Lippillus and Marcina are coming to dinner tonight,’ Perilla said. Damn; I had. Never mind, the Esquiline wasn’t too far away and an afternoon appointment with Carsidius would get me back in plenty of time. ‘Oh, and Marcus?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Be careful.’

Although ‘good as gold’ didn’t exactly describe Placida’s behaviour on the walk — there was a minor incident involving a pie-seller near the Racetrack, but the guy had snapped his fingers at her and it was his own fault — we made it without too much trouble. Maybe sending her out with Alexis hadn’t been such a bad move after all, and she’d decided to turn over a new leaf.

Maybe.

The Trigemina Gate’s on the river side of the city, beyond Circus Valley and opposite the north-west corner of the Aventine. That stretch, following the river and all the way south to Pottery Mountain, is definitely industrial area, mostly the heavy or bulk variety because the raw material can come up or down the Tiber by barge and doesn’t have to be transported overland all that far. So we weren’t exactly short of stonemasons’ yards here. Accordingly, I gave it a fair crack of the whip; I asked at every yard and every wine-shop from the Sublician down to Drusus and Germanicus Arch.

No one had heard of either Sextus Aponius or Quintus Pettius.

Okay, so check. So much for the accidental stonemasons; the buggers had been tailing me right enough. The question was why? And who had sent them? Not that I wasn’t grateful, mark you.

Well, at least I’d done my duty by Perilla. What with the trip over to the Gate and subsequent detours up and down the river bank, Placida couldn’t complain that she wasn’t getting her share of exercise. I wasn’t going to do an Alexis and risk letting her off the lead, though, even in the comparatively open ground near Pottery Mountain. Chasing rampant Gallic boarhounds over half the Thirteenth Region was a pleasure I could do without.

I got back home in time for a quick lunch before my arranged appointment with Lucius Carsidius. Perilla wasn’t in, so I left Placida sleeping it off in Alexis’s shed and headed up to the Esquiline.

Carsidius was everything I’d expected: a handsome, upright, silver-haired senator who just radiated respectability, honesty, trustworthiness, love of honour and the embodiment of everything that has made Rome great. Dad would’ve loved him. More, he’d chosen to see me in his private study, where the eyes of a dozen generations of his family in the form of portrait busts glared down at me as if I’d just pissed under their noses on the fancy mosaic floor.

He was also, very plainly although he tried to hide it, nervous. And…angry. There was no other word for it.

Odd.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ he said, rising. ‘Do come in, please.’ Then, to the slave who’d brought me in: ‘Bring us some wine, Flavius. Corvinus, you’ll find that chair most comfortable if you’d care to sit.’

I sat. He did the same, behind his desk. We looked at each other.

‘I’m — ’ I began.

He held up a hand. ‘I know why you’re here,’ he said. ‘To ask me about the death of young Sextus Papinius. But first I’m afraid that I have a confession to make. Rather a serious one, as it happens.’

‘Uh…you have?’ I said.

‘Yes. You see, I bribed him.’

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I stared at the guy.

‘You did what?’ I said.

‘I gave Sextus Papinius twenty thousand sesterces. In exchange for his accepting some false information regarding the damage to several pieces of property I have on the Aventine.’

My brain had gone numb. ‘Uh…run that past me again, pal,’ I said. ‘You’re telling me, free, gratis and for nothing, under no compulsion or threat whatsoever, that you slipped the boy a backhander?’

‘Yes.’ His face was unreadable, although I thought I detected a slight hint of distaste. ‘I’m not proud of myself, not in the least. Quite the reverse. And I’ve already confessed to Laelius Balbus, in exchange, of course, for an assurance that the matter ends here and there will be no prosecution. Under the circumstances that would be in no one’s interests.’ The door behind me opened and he glanced over my shoulder. ‘Ah. Here’s the wine. Just pour it and go, Flavius, we’re discussing business.’

He did. I looked at Carsidius over the wine-cup. ‘How much did you say you’d given him?’ I said.

‘Twenty thousand sesterces.’

‘You’re sure it wasn’t fifty?’

‘Fifty? Why fifty?’

‘Fifty seems a nice round number. Although sixty would be even better.’

‘No. It was twenty thousand, and it represented a…shall we call it a ten percent commission on what I personally would make from the deal.’ His lips twisted. ‘No doubt he made similar arrangements with other customers but I know nothing of them.’

‘But now you’ve lost the lot, so you’re twenty thousand down.’

‘Yes. Do try the wine, by the way.’

I did. It was Falernian. Proper Falernian, which is saying something. I took a proper gulp, because any minute now I’d be out on my ear, and good Falernian you don’t waste. Ah, well: it had to be done.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but you’re lying.’

He blinked, as if I’d hit him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You didn’t bribe Papinius at all. The kid was straight, I’d bet my back teeth on it. So the question is, why are you saying that you did?’

‘I…I’ve never…never been…’ He was red-faced and spluttering. I’d done it deliberately, of course: broad-stripers like Carsidius aren’t used to being called liars to their faces. There’re so many lies spouted in the senate-house that call someone a liar one minute and five minutes later you’re leaving yourself wide open to the counter-charge; with the consequence that no one uses the word at all, however deserved it is. Work out the cumulative effect on truth, justice, honesty and fair-mindedness in your average senatorial debate over the centuries and you’ll realise just why Rome is the caring, sharing mistress of the world that she is, loved and revered throughout her empire. And why all senators, silver-haired or not, friends of Arruntius and Marsus or not, are total bastards at heart.

‘One reason I can think of,’ I went on, since I obviously wasn’t going to get an answer to the question anyway, ‘was that you had Papinius killed yourself and bribery’s the lesser of the two crimes. Admit to the second and ipso facto you can’t be guilty of the first. Why the hell you’d want him dead, mind, -’

Suddenly, Carsidius stood up. I had to admit it was pretty impressive. He was a tall guy, ramrod-straight, and like I say he looked the part. There was no spluttering now, either. He glared at me, walked over to the shrine in the corner and laid his hand on top of it.

‘Listen, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Listen very carefully. I swear by all the gods of my family, by Jupiter, Mars and the pantheon, that I had no part, active or passive, in the killing of Sextus Papinius. Now. Will that satisfy you?’

‘Fine.’ I was impressed, despite myself, but I wasn’t going to show this bastard that. No way. ‘You want to swear now that you did bribe him?’

He took his hand from the shrine like it was red-hot. ‘You insult me!’

‘Damn right I do, pal!’ I was on my feet and angry myself now. ‘It seems that’s the only way I’m going to get any truth here! Now what the fuck’s going on?’

‘Leave my house!’

‘When I’m good and ready. Let’s talk keys.’

The guy was red enough for an apoplexy. ‘Valerius Corvinus, unless you leave now, I’ll — !’

‘That flat had three keys that I know about. One went to the tenant, and if the place was empty it was kept on the board in Caepio’s living-room. That was the one — according to Caepio — that Papinius took the day he died and which was found on his body. The second was on Caepio’s duplicate bunch, and he swears it never went out of his hands. The third was yours, and that one, pal, I know nothing about. But whoever killed Papinius had a key, and yours is my best bet. So if you didn’t have the kid murdered then you tell me about that key. Or was there a fourth?’

He was visibly shaking: with anger, mostly, but there was something else. ‘There was no fourth!’ he snapped. ‘If it was my key — and I take your word that another key was used — then I know nothing of the whys and wherefores involved. Why should I? Holy immortal gods, Corvinus, do you know how much property I own in Rome and elsewhere? Yes, I’ve got keys, any number of them, but I don’t keep them myself any more than I personally collect the rents!’

Bugger. Now that was something I hadn’t considered, and I should’ve done. He was right, of course: no property-owner of Carsidius’s class dirties his hands with the everyday, mundane processes that net him his yearly income. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So who does keep them?’

‘My bailiff, naturally!’

‘Yeah, I’d sort of assumed that. He got a name?’

‘The…’ Carsidius sat down and took a deep breath. ‘His name was Faustus.’

‘“Was”?’ My guts went cold. ‘You mean he’s dead?’

‘Certainly not! At least, as far as I’m aware. If you must know, I discharged him three days ago. For reasons which have no bearing on the matter and which don’t concern you.’

Uh-huh. And my name was Cleopatra. ‘So where is he now?’ I said.

‘Neapolis. Brindisi. Capua, perhaps. He may even have taken a ship from Ostia or Puteoli and gone abroad. In any event he told me at our last…meeting that he was leaving Rome. Where he chose to go when he left my employ was none of my concern, and I certainly didn’t bother to ask.’ Carsidius had picked up a stylus from the desk. ‘Now. This interview is at an end. I would ask you not to trouble me again.’

I stood up and set the wine-cup down carefully. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your time.’

I was heading for the door when he said: ‘Corvinus!’

I turned. ‘Yeah?’

He was sitting with a face like one of the portrait busts. ‘I’ve always been a faithful servant of the emperor. I’ve done my duty, however unpleasant I’ve found it personally. I want you to remember that.’

‘Bully for you,’ I said.

I opened the door, and left.

One minor point, and it didn’t strike me until I was out in the street and beginning to cool down. When Carsidius had taken his oath, he’d used the word ‘killing’ apropos of Sextus Papinius; not ‘death’ but ‘killing’. Yeah, sure, I’d introduced the idea of murder myself, but only as a theory, and it wasn’t a theory that Carsidius — ipso facto — would be exactly ready to entertain. So why had he done it?

Shit, it was probably nothing, just my hypertrophied imagination kicking in again. All the same, it was interesting.

So what did I make of that?

I thought it over as I walked back down towards the Caelian. The guy had played absolutely true to form. I’d rubbed shoulders — reluctantly for the most part — with broad-stripers all my life, and Carsidius was right-down-the-middle typical: ego the size of the Capitol, touchy as hell where his honour was concerned — at least, as far as the part of it other people saw went — and fully prepared to lie through his teeth while at the same time damning your eyes for daring to question his veracity. The smart-as-paint Greeks, who can be cynically accurate buggers when they like, take their word for reputation — doxa — from the verb ‘to seem’, which is spot-on. With these bastards, appearances are everything, and to hell with the muckier reality. Papinius Allenius had been dead right when he’d bracketed Carsidius with Arruntius: they were a pair and no mistake, both in the bad and the good. Ignore the veneer of Roman honestas, which is a con in any case, think in terms of Greek doxa and you won’t go far wrong. For all Carsidius’s air of outraged rectitude I wouldn’t trust the guy an inch.

Not over the killing, mind. The broad-striper code may be elastic, but it only stretches certain ways: in some directions it’s rigid and unbreakable. Like taking unforced oaths. Carsidius hadn’t had to do that business with the altar, especially there in the study with his ancestors looking on. No, I was with Caepio there: whoever had had the kid murdered, it wasn’t our poker-backed senator pal. Or at least — thinking of the actual wording of the oath I stopped and rephrased that — at the time when the murder was being planned and committed Carsidius hadn’t known about it. That would’ve been a typical bit of senatorial wriggling…

So why had he compromised his reputation by lying about the bribes? Lied he definitely had, the business with the altar — again — proved that beyond a doubt. But if he was lying, then -

I slowed. Okay, Corvinus. Think it through, boy.

Reputation. Doxa. Carsidius had admitted bribery to me, sure, but that was in a one-to-one situation, with no witnesses. His reputation — as far as the rest of the world was concerned — was safe. Oh, yeah, he claimed he’d also told Balbus, but then Balbus was in the same boat. When we’d met I’d been the one to suggest that Papinius had been taking bribes. All Balbus had done was confirmed it; but — and this was the point — he’d made it clear that apart from talking to the boy himself he hadn’t taken the matter any further. So again we had the one-to-one, no witnesses scenario, because Papinius was long past confirming or denying anything. Okay. So what we had here was a closed circle. I start the bribery rumour myself, Balbus picks it up like the gift it is and passes it to Carsidius, who feeds it back to me, while telling me he’s already made his own confession to the aedile, who’s had the business shelved. Result — or this is the plan, anyway — dumb-head Corvinus goes off whistling into the sunset believing that Papinius was on the make, his boss had caught him at it and as a consequence the kid had committed suicide. End of case, end of investigation, pull down the blinds and go home…

It worked. Sure it did. The big question was why? Why should two prestigious, well-respected senators get together to produce a cover-up for a murder?

It didn’t make sense; none of it. Nor did the business with the keys. That had been another lie on Carsidius’s part, and not a very good one, either. Sure, he might well have had a bailiff called Faustus, but trying to shift the blame onto him and then telling me in the next breath that the guy had just been coincidentally sacked and had left Rome for parts unknown was in the tap-dancing oyster bracket. Keys were important, I knew it in my water. Carsidius knew it too, which was why the bastard had practically fallen over himself to fob me off. The question — again — was why?

It was starting to rain: big drops from a blackening sky. I covered my head with my cloak and picked up speed.

One last, last thing. That ‘something else’ besides anger in Carsidius’s look, when I’d asked him about the key.

It had been fear.